


Creature Comforts

by Argyle



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mutant Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:43:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles discovers that Erik may in fact have a tertiary mutant ability. Thankfully, he's hungover enough to appreciate it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Creature Comforts

_All colours will agree in the dark. - Francis Bacon_

 

Most days, Charles is up well before Erik.

He says he likes to gets a jump on things, beat the rush on the motel's limited supply of hot water, but the truth of it is that he finds it difficult to sleep when there are too many people about. At rest, his mind tends to latch on to any old stray thought that comes his way, and too often he's woken with another person's worry and dread and regret.

This is especially cumbersome when he's nursing a hangover. Which he is now.

And at these times of weakness and misery (and also at times of comparative clarity, if he's honest), so too does he tend to wake with the influence of someone else's groggy, pre-dawn arousal.

This is just biology. Simple enough, and nothing worthy of shame.

But lately-- Well. The thing of it is: the hard-on in question has belonged to Erik.

Erik is a rough sleeper -- when he does sleep. There have been more than a few times that Charles brushed a mental hand over Erik's nightmares in attempt to calm him. And this works, surely it does, but Charles can't help but feel guilty about using his power on the other man, unaware and uninvited.

He'd asked Erik about it, casually, during a long companionable drive to Charlottesville in search of a mutant with what turned out to be the stimulating ability to emulate small shrubs.

"Wouldn't you like to sleep peacefully, without nightmares?"

To which Erik said something like this: "I've got on well enough so far."

And interestingly, whether Charles has meddled with Erik's REM-state or not, Erik looks about the room upon waking as though seeing it for the first time, faintly mystified, his gaze lingering on the television stand or the desk or Charles himself. This only lasts a couple of seconds. Then his eyes harden, gain focus. His jaw clenches, just so.

And he untangles himself from his sheets.

Gets up.

Rolls his shoulders and stretches his arms in a slow, almost feline movement.

 _Christ._ From his still-bleary vantage in the other bed, Charles can see the outline of Erik's cock through the silk of his pajama bottoms. It's all Charles can do not to suck in a breath, right then. Or run the heel of his hand against his own aching erection, and wouldn't it be a hoot to see Erik's reaction to _that_.

Damn him, but Erik seems to catch something of the thought. His lips curl round the corners, and he looks over at Charles. "You won't mind if I shower first today." It isn't a question.

Charles blinks. Really, he hates to give himself away, but pretending to sleep was never a strong suit. "No," he says, surprised at how gravelly his voice sounds. And not so surprised he has a lager-borne headache to match.

For a few minutes, Erik stands at the bureau, sorting through his suitcase for clean underclothes and his toiletry case. Then he retreats into the too-small bathroom and begins to run the shower.

Charles presses his face into his pillow. He won't listen in. But then, he doesn't need to. He can imagine the water as it traces fine paths across Erik's chest, and then wide ones as Erik turns to face the shower head, places a hand on the wall to brace himself, take his cock in his fist and--

"Get a grip," Charles hisses. He spends five minutes calming his body and cursing his overactive imagination all the while.

It's another ten before Erik steps back out of the bathroom, already dried and half-dressed.

And still a little flushed, though perhaps that's only a trick of the light, or an emphasis brought on by the inky hue of the turtleneck he pulls on.

Charles has noticed this in Erik -- his predilection for purple. If Charles didn't know better, he'd think it was an affectation, or vanity, perhaps one of the few indulgences Erik allows himself.

And Erik _is_ quite aware that the color suits him -- Charles doesn't need to be a mind-reader to know that. What's different is this: Erik uses the information as he would any other tool at his disposal, and his awareness is actually that a man's appearance makes a difference in certain circles. Might act as a key where no metal is at hand.

Certainly, Charles is no box to be unlocked. But he still notices the way the curve of Erik's collar gives way to his throat, accenting the strong line of his jaw. There must be a hint of stubble along it, though he'd shaved--

"All right?" Erik catches his eye.

Charles shakes himself, looking away. "Yes," he says. "Just a bit slow to get the motor going this morning, I guess. That's the last time I let you talk me into 'one last pint' three times in a row."

Erik laughs shortly. "Right," he says, sitting on the edge of his bed to pull on his shoes. "I'm sure you don't feel half as bad as you look." Before Charles can retaliate, Erik raises a hand. "Don't say I was never lenient." Finally, on go his belt, watch, and leather jacket, and just as he slips through the door: "I'll give you an hour to get ready."

In fact, he gives Charles an hour and fifteen minutes.

Charles takes every second of it: twenty minutes in bed (it's good), another twenty in the shower (even better), and the rest to get dressed as slowly and laboriously as he's able. The latter is out of a physical need to not move his head more than is absolutely necessary (at least he hasn't an upset stomach to match), rather than any qualms he has for Erik's timekeeping.

Besides, Charles can sense Erik's arrival before Erik reaches the door. In fact, he senses Erik the moment he pulls back into the shabby motel carpark.

Erik doesn't bother knocking. He uses his power to twist the knob, and then the door swings open.

He's backlit in the bright morning sun, almost glowing-- but oh, for once it's what he has in his hands that really sets Charles reeling: two paper cups wafting the unmistakable scent of good black coffee, and a paper bag containing--

"What, exactly?" says Charles.

"Breakfast. The espresso is for me." Erik tosses the bag down on the bed, and Charles gingerly unfolds the creased top. "Have at it."

"Espresso?" Charles repeats, dumbfounded. "Wherever did you find a shop that sells espresso?"

Erik shrugs. It's a self-satisfied gesture, and Charles can't blame him. He peeks into the bag.

"Oh, god," he groans. Or almost. And either way, it's justified: before him sits what is absolutely the most beautiful cheese danish to ever exist in the history of the world. "Lovely."

And this is an understatement.

With a mouthful of coffee and pastry, he reflects that without fail, Erik has a way of finding the best bakery in town. Even if said town had nought but fried chicken joints the night before and they were both too famished to complain that really, even a pizza would be preferable.

Charles wonders if this is Erik's tertiary mutant gift, after his control of metal and the ability to spend twelve hours driving and still have the mental fortitude to play chess the same night.

"I do what I can." Erik thumbs through the bag, retrieving a simple cruller. "Besides, you'll need your stamina if we're to make it to Maine before nightfall."

It's a cruel trick, but Charles allows it.

There's another cruller in the bag. He sets it aside for himself before getting his shoes on, then follows Erik to the car.


End file.
